Upon A Little Lady
Under the Discipline of an Excellent Person.
I.
How comes the Day orecast? the Flaming Sun
Darkn'd at Noon, as if his Course were run?
He never rose more proud, more glad, more gay,
Ne're courted Daphne with a brighter Ray!
And now in Clouds he wraps his Head,
As if not Daphne, but himself were dead!
And all the little Winged Troop
Forbear to sing, and sit and droop;
The Flowers do languish on their Beds,
And fading hang their Mourning Heads;
The little Cupids discontented, shew,
In Grief and Rage one breaks his Bow,
An other tares his Cheeks and Haire,
A third sits blubring in Despaire,
Confessing though, in Love, he be,
A Powerful, Dreadful Deitie,
A Child, in Wrath, can do as much as he!
Whence is this Evil hurl'd,
On all the sweetness of the World?
Among those Things with Beauty shine,
(Both Humane natures, and Divine)
There was not so much sorrow spi'd,
No, not that Day the sweet Adonis died!
II.
Ambitious both to know the Ill, and to partake,
The little Weeping Gods I thus bespake.
Ye Noblest Pow'rs and Gentlest that Above,
Govern us Men, but govern still with Love,
Vouchsafe to tell, what can that Sorrow be,
Disorders Heaven, and wounds a Deitie.
My Prayer not spoken out,
One of the Winged Rout,
With Indignation great,
Sprung from his Airie-Seat,
And mounting to a Higher Cloud,
With Thunder, or a Voice as loud
Cried, Mortal there, there seek the Grief o'th' Gods,
Where thou findst Plagues, and their revengeful Rods!
And in the Instant that the Thing was meant,
He bent his Bow, his Arrow plac't, and to the mark it sent!
I follow'd with my watchful Eye,
To the Place where the Shaft did flie,
But O unheard-of Prodigy.
It was retorted back again,
And he that sent it, felt the pain,
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poem by Anne Killigrew
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